The Ghost of Christmas Past
by Coletta
Summary: When Sherlock heard John's miserable, shameless cry, he knew they were both going to die. WARNING: Major Character Death. One-Shot. (Now with alternative ending)
1. Chapter 1

_"Jesus, God, spare us! Spare me and Sherlock Holmes!"_

John, who'd never so much as muttered "_grace" _or spent a Sunday at church, was crying out for God's intervention. To Sherlock's knowledge, there had only ever been one other such incident and that was when John had been shot in Afghanistan. When Sherlock heard John's miserable, shameless cry, he knew they were both going to die.

And John had used Sherlock's _full name_, like maybe God didn't know who Sherlock was, or maybe John just wanted to make sure God didn't confuse him with all the other Sherlocks in the world and inadvertently save the wrong one.

When the gunshot rang out, Sherlock held his breath. The only sound that followed was a horrible gurgling sound. Then nothing. John had been shot in the chest, or the throat, and now there was no more suffering. There would never be any more suffering ever again.

And so Sherlock stopped kicking, stopped trying to claw his way out of the boot. Because statistically, _logically_, there was zero chance he was going to survive now. It wasn't in his abductors' interests to kill one hostage and then let another remain alive to become a witness. His window to talk his way out of this had passed. He could think of absolutely nothing he could do to save himself or even prolong his life. Sherlock simply had to be strong and endure the next few seconds.

Oh God. John had just been murdered. And by the sounds of it, being tossed into a shallow grave.

John had told Sherlock _days ago_ he didn't want to be part of this case. He'd gently prodded Sherlock, asked him to let this one go, warned Sherlock that organized crime was too big, too dangerous and unpredictable for a couple of civilians, and _please_ just leave this one to the police. And Sherlock had laughed at John and dragged him along, protests and all. Oh God. There would never be suffering ever again. Oh God. John. Good, careful, sensible John.

Sherlock couldn't see because there was a black garbage bag over his head, duct tape tight around his neck. His arms were pinned behind his back, his wrists bound, his knees bound, his ankles.

Suddenly, someone was grabbing him. Multiple someones. They dragged Sherlock out of the boot and dropped him on the wet grass. They dragged him by his ankles. They dragged him for a distance. Not too far.

Then he was kicked in the back, hard. Sherlock tumbled down suddenly into a hole, muddy and cold. He landed hard on John's body, what he knew _had_ to be John's body, knew by the feel of the cardigan, by the button up, by the smell of John's aftershave. John didn't move below Sherlock. John was wet. John was soaked with blood. John wasn't breathing. John wasn't suffering. Just a few more moments now.

And all Sherlock had to do was lay still. It was okay. Because John had done it. And Sherlock was not about to be outdone by John Watson. And this was an okay place to die, this quiet place, and he couldn't ask for better company and in a moment, Sherlock felt a boot crushing the back on his neck, crushing, _crushing_, and his cheek was pressed hard against John's chest and there was a gun pressed against his opposite ear and this was okay, _this was okay_, wasn't it? Better than being blown up in an armored vehicle in Afghanistan, yes? Better than the floor of a squalid dive flat with a needle stuck in his arm? Better than in a nursing home, pissing and shitting themselves helplessly, at the mercy of impatient hospice staff, dying one at a time and leaving the other to suffer in misery and dementia fifty years from now, their careers over, their victories forgotten?

_Always look on the bright side of life. _

John's blood was still warm and Sherlock was covered with it and this was _literally the closest Sherlock had ever been to another human being_, the most intimate, and being murdered while laying on top of your dead best friend was a little like finding God.

The gunshot was unbelievably loud.

Except there was no bullet for Sherlock. Above him, he heard the groaning of one of his assailants, the sound of him sinking to the ground and keeling over, and then Lestrade's thunderous order for everyone to drop their weapons, then Donovan's shrill voice joined in, telling the thugs they were surrounded.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

John actually did not die that night.

John, also, did not go home with a bandage on his head, or with a cane or with crutches or with a wheelchair.

He just laid there, hooked up to a respirator, lips cracked and dry and his eyes glazed and unseeing.

He laid there for four months until Harry signed the papers to take John off life support.

Then John died.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Most of the time, Sherlock was okay. A little quiet. He still liked his violin and his chemistry set and his crime scenes. He liked his coffee black with two sugars. He was also fond of Mrs. Hudson. He was very fond of London and would take long walks through Regents Park between cases.

But Sherlock was not very fond of himself. He would stare at himself in the mirror above the fireplace, unbelieving, like he didn't know the person looking back at him. He would touch his face sometimes. Then let his hand drop and go about his business.

He made a genuine, conscious effort. Symptoms of PTSD, survivor's guilt. These were real things, just like broken bones, and he knew he needed time to heal before he could return to normal. Five stages of grief and all that. It explained why he didn't know his own face anymore.

Sherlock was a practical, efficient man. He put a large white-board calendar on the wall and plotted out his recovery. He kept a daily planner in his phone_. _

_From seven pm to midnight, everyday, you can cry as much as you want. _

_You can go to the grave every Saturday for the first month. After that, twice a month, on alternating Saturdays. After three months, you can only go one Saturday a month. After six months, you have to stop going. You may keep some of John's things, but you must put them away, out of sight._

They were hard rules to keep to, but Sherlock quickly devised ways to keep himself disciplined and on track.

_Take a box and fill it with John's favorite things, the things you plan on keeping. For every day you break a rule, take something out of the box. Put it in the rubbish bin. _

So Sherlock became very quiet, very disciplined and very focused. Because Sherlock was very fond of John's wrist watch and army mug and they were in the box and Sherlock liked his John-box so much, so very,_ very _much.

However, a few weeks after the burial, Harry came and went though John's things and found the John-box.

Sherlock paced restlessly in the kitchen, practically chewing through his fist, watching her casually rifle through. He couldn't tell her she couldn't have John's things. As the next-of-kin, she was entitled to anything she wanted.

She took the watch. She took the dog-tags. She took the phone.

Sherlock wanted to die when she took the phone. _What could you possibly want that for?! You vulture!_

When she was gone, Sherlock huddled over John's remains, cradling them, sorting them. He still had the leather gloves, John's green Woolrich parka with the fur-lined hood, the oatmeal jumper, the black shooting jacket. The camel brogue shoes. The mug. Shaving kit. Pocket knife. Laptop. Good things. John things.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

At four am, some months later, Sherlock's eyes flew open.

He was laying in his bed. The window was being pelted by rain. It cast drizzled shadows across his bedroom.

_"Jesus, God, spare us! Spare me and Sherlock Holmes!"_

John hadn't been crying out for God's intervention. John had been crying out for their _souls_ to be spared.

_So they could both go to heaven. Together._

Sherlock immediately got up, got dressed.

Toed on his shoes.

Got his coat, wrapped his scarf around his neck.

He flung open the front door, trotted down the stairs without shutting the door behind him and went out into the pouring rain.

He went to a cash machine and withdrew everything he had. Then he wandered the streets for less than an hour before he found someone. Sherlock bought as much heroin as he could afford and returned home.

Dripping wet, he shrugged off his coat and simply dropped it to the floor. He went to work right away.

He sealed the flat, shoving rags under the door, taping plastic to the windows.

He went to the kitchen. He opened the oven door and snuffed out the pilot light. He left the door wide open, listening to the faint _hiss_ as 221b filled with gas.

Then he went into his bedroom and dug out a needle from a hallowed out book and made his way back to the sitting room. Once he settled down comfortably in his favorite chair, he prepared himself. He rolled up his sleeve, tied the cord, clenched his fist and found a vein effortlessly. He got higher than he'd ever been in his life. He shot up again. Again.

He chucked the needle to the floor and sat dazed a moment. Then he settled back into the sofa, snuggling up on to his side and drawing his knees to his chest, closed his eyes and tried to drift off for a little nap.

He lay there for just fifteen minutes.

He couldn't do it. What if the gas found a flame and the whole flat went up, taking Mrs. Hudson with it?

Sherlock got up, shut off the gas, opened the windows. He went back to bed, thinking he could still die from an overdose, thinking maybe he should call for help, but feeling too ambivalent to dial his phone. He'd be sectioned off, and then his life truly wouldn't be worth living. If he died…well, he'd die. And after all, John had already asked for Sherlock's soul to be spared. He'd be fine. John had vouched for him.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Sherlock ended up testifying in court about John's murder. He pointed his finger at John's killers. They went to jail. He felt nothing. He didn't want to kill them. It wouldn't bring John back.

Afterwards, Lestrade and his team were unusually proud of Sherlock, patting him on the back and telling him what a _good_ thing he had done, facing John's murderers like that and _how long had people been talking down to him like that? _Talking to Sherlock like he was a child? Like he wasn't all there anymore? Sherlock didn't think he had done anything all that impressive. He never solved the case and he hadn't saved John. He felt confused. He just went home.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Sherlock went to John's grave the day after Christmas.

Standing in the wet snow, Sherlock said accusingly, "I'm tired of living in regret. I'm not going to think about you anymore. Kindly leave me and my thoughts alone."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Sherlock spent the next ten years not thinking about John.

He furiously took every case that caught his scent. He almost never turned away a client. He even took cases that…really, were not 'cases' at all, not things a private detective would tackle. But Sherlock Holmes developed a reputation as a man who could solve problems.

Once, Sherlock spent two hours sitting on the railing of a bridge next to a middle aged banker who had threatened to jump. Surrounded by police, Sherlock just sat next to him. He didn't coax the man off the railing or plead with him or promise him things would get better. He just listened to the man's story. Then he analyzed it and began listing all the pros and cons of suicide, given the man's situation, and made his recommendation. Then he warned the man, in detail, what death by jumping-off-a-bridge would feel like, what the man could expect as far as 'Will it be instant?' (It wouldn't) 'Will I feel anything?' (Yes. It will be terrible.) Sherlock knew these things.

Sherlock's goal hadn't been to _save_ the man, but to_ help _him. Ultimately, the man decided not to jump, which neither pleased nor disappointed Sherlock. He had simply examined the situation and provided all the relevant data so the man could make an informed choice.

Again, Scotland Yard hailed Sherlock a hero.

Later that day, Lestrade clasped a brotherly hand on Sherlock's shoulder and asked him, "What did you say to him so that he didn't jump?"

"I told him that poison was a less painless and more reliable way to kill yourself."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

After ten years of pretending he never knew John, Sherlock tried something else: he tried very, very, very hard to remember John.

He went to the closet and dug out his John-box. He carefully took everything that remained out.

Then, in a zen-like trance, Sherlock would sit on the floor, eyes closed, and he would try to remember John Watson. Dr. John Hamish Watson, the army doctor from Afghanistan, Sherlock's flat mate and best friend.

He would reach out in front of himself and cup the air and tried to remember what John felt like. How his hand felt under Sherlock's fingers. His checkered shirts with the top button undone, the white undershirt peeking out. John's small mouth and fine, blonde stubble and how wide his smile could become and how John's whole face would crinkle under the effort. John had wrinkles like a pug, all that sun damage from the desert uv rays. When John smiled, it was ridiculous and infectious and it made Sherlock smile, too.

Then, Sherlock would pretend that John was in the room.

That Sherlock's eyes just…happened to be closed for whatever reason, but John was only a few feet away.

The hair on Sherlock's arm would rise. He would feel a knot in his throat, his heart would flutter.

Like Shrodinger's cat, John was alive and dead for as long as Sherlock kept his eyes closed.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

When Sherlock turned fifty, he went back to school.

He took night classes, not because he needed flexibility or because he needed to accommodate a work schedule, but because it was less embarrassing. He was surrounded by other adults. It didn't work. The other people he met were his intellectual inferiors by far. Pretending to be their peer made him feel worse. But he went anyhow.

Sherlock didn't need to work, never had. After Mycroft died of pancreatic cancer, Sherlock found himself rich again. He tried giving his money away to Mrs. Hudson, but she died almost immediately after; a stroke. Sherlock was surprised to discover that Mrs. Hudson had children, children she left 221 Baker Street to, but they couldn't decide who was going to get the property and they squabbled. Sherlock offered to buy it and the kids (they weren't kids, they were much older than him) jumped on Sherlock's offer, splitting the money between them, and now Sherlock had a home forever and a modest income from the other tenants.

So now Sherlock took night classes. Aeronautics. Electronic engineering. Arabic. Physics. Sculpture. Astronomy. Sign language. Just to pass the time. Crime scenes and cold cases had long ago lost their appeal and Sherlock only solved cases now because he felt obligated. He couldn't remember the last time he was happy, or excited. Going to school didn't thrill him either. But it was something to do and he never actually did finish university. It was sore spot on his pride that he was _technically_ a drop-out.

One night, as Sherlock was headed home, he walked down the dim university hallway alone.

And Sherlock saw John at the end of the hallway.

John, just as Sherlock remembered him. Better than Sherlock remembered. More. More John than could ever fit into Sherlock's mind palace. Wrinkled smile. White tuft of hair at his crown, mixed in with all the dark blonde. A gray cable knit jumper today, not the checkered shirt and cardigan Sherlock usually imagined, and dark blue jeans instead of the khakis. And most importantly, no blood. There was usually blood in Sherlock's dreams, even when John was smiling. John had his black Haversack shooting jacket hanging from his arm, like he was anxious to go somewhere, like there was a case. _A case!_

Sherlock dropped his text books and sank to his knees, unable to breathe. "John."

John seemed to be looking right at Sherlock. He looked pleasant and tangible.

"John," Sherlock wheezed, and it was as if fifteen years hadn't gone by. Sherlock was in the boot of the car again, and John was only a short distance away, crying out for God's intervention, calling Sherlock by his full name so God would know who to save.

John gave Sherlock a reproachful looked. "Will you stop goofing off?" John demanded amiably, and Sherlock thought he was going to die, hearing John's voice after all this time. John checked his watch. "I'm going to miss dinner, you know. Sarah's waiting for me."

Sherlock thought he was having a stroke, a heart attack, a brain aneurism._ John. Go be with Sarah. Have a happy life. Buy a house and fill it with children. Let's agree to not be detectives anymore and you'll never have to be shot in the throat and die. In return, I'll visit every Christmas. I'll bring gifts for your children and a bottle of wine for your wife and I'll be perfectly behaved company. And I'll be miserable and bored. I'll die of a drug overdose at forty and you'll say something nice at my funeral and it will be lovely._

All he had to do was be strong for the next few seconds and there would never be suffering ever again. And what beautiful company to die in.

But Sherlock didn't die and John vanished.

Sherlock lurched forward, crawling along the floor. "John! John! JOHN!" he shouted, shouted like he should have the day John was murdered, the day John was shot.

Sherlock had a _duty_ to John, to die when John had because the case had been Sherlock's _fault_, Sherlock's _doing_, and it should have been left to the police, just like John said and they shouldn't ever have bothered with that case.

But no matter how long Sherlock shouted, John didn't come back. John was gone.

After a few minutes, an elderly man appeared in the hallway. "Are you okay?" the man asked. "Did you see something? Tell me what you saw!"

Sherlock tried to pull himself together. He sat up and dragged himself to a wall and rested back against it, drawing his knees to his chest. He didn't answer. John was _dead_ and rotting in the ground. He hadn't visited the grave in years. John was dead and Sherlock had just _left_ John outside in the dirt, in a box, _just left him there_, through all the seasons, through the oppressive summer heat and the bitter winter cold to decompose and decompose and decompose and _there were so many dead people_, billions and billions, all faceless and nameless with no identities who'd lived entire _lifetimes_, extraordinary fucking lives, who'd lived through war and plague and did Sherlock know any of them? No! They were dead and forgotten, their deeds and sins meaningless now, and John Watson was very, very close to becoming meaningless and forgotten because Sherlock was the only person who remembered John now and Sherlock was always just one bullet away, one bridge away, one overdose away from joining the billions and billions and billions of other dead, useless, worthless people. And there was no reason that John ought to be dead while Sherlock remained alive. Sherlock ought to be in the ground, too. And that was the tragedy of it. Sherlock deserved to die, but when he did, John would be gone, _really_ gone. John only existed in Sherlock's memory. When Sherlock finally died, then all John Watson's good deeds and heroism and…and that wrinkled smile would vanish for good.

The old man crouched beside Sherlock and shook his shoulders fiercely. "I need to know what you saw! Can you hear me?"

Sherlock said nothing. His eye lashes were wet. He blinked rapidly. For the first time, he noticed the old man.

"Listen to me," said the old man, "I was conducting an experiment a moment ago, an experiment which did not yield results at all like I was expecting. In fact, the only reaction was you shouting in this hallway. _Why_ were you shouting?"

Sherlock blinked tears away from his eyes. "Experiment?"

"An experiment, yes, just as I explained. Are you _dull_, boy?"

Sherlock wiped his face with his shaking hands. He hadn't been called 'boy' in thirty years. "What kind of experiment…?"

"I can't contaminate my results by giving you information!" the old man snapped indignantly. "Tell me what happened, if _anything_ happened. This is very important."

Sherlock understood the important of experiments. He pointed ahead of himself "I saw my friend standing at the end of the hallway," he volunteered cautiously. "There."

"Is that all?" the man scoffed, dejected. "Why all the fuss? Why the shouting?"

"My friend has been dead for fifteen years," Sherlock explained numbly. "He was murdered."

The old man stood up joyfully, his eyes gleaming behind his square lenses. "That's marvelous! That's extraordinary!"

Sherlock was horrified.

The man noticed and said, "No, no. It's not marvelous that your friend was _murdered_, but that you saw him just now! You see, the experiment was supposed to do like so; what _you_ experienced was supposed to happen to _me_. But somehow it didn't go as I planned at all. At least my theory is sound."

Sherlock was confused. "You were…supposed to…conjure up a vision of a dead friend?"

"No!" the man cried. "I'm not 'conjuring' anything. That's witch craft. That's phoney-bologna, the stuff of mediums and tv psychics."

"What did I experience just now?" Sherlock asked.

"Time travel!" the man declared.

Sherlock stared unbelieving. "What?"

"Time travel," the old man said. "The genuine article. I've been studying it my whole life and these experiments are the culmination of decades of research."

Sherlock sneered. "That's science fiction. Time travel doesn't exist."

"Indeed!" the old man snorted, standing up. "Time travel is real and you just proved it."

"Are you saying you brought my friend forward fifteen years into the future?" Sherlock asked bitterly. "Somehow dodging his murder, just to appear before my eyes? Where did he go, then?"

"No, you fool," the man explained."You can't go forwards in time. It's impossible. But you can go _backwards_ in time. That's what you did just now. You went back in time. Most natural thing in the world. In fact, we go back in time every day. We just need to learn how to harness that time travel, the time travel that's going on around us all the time, but nobody notices."

None of this made any sense to Sherlock. "If I went _backwards_ in time," Sherlock huffed, "but going _forwards_ through time is impossible, how did I get _back_ here? I'm not _still_ in the past."

"You're an idiot," the man dismissed, stood up and marched away.

Sherlock felt his pulse in his throat.

The man was almost gone when Sherlock sprang up to his feet. "Why am I an idiot?"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

He was a professor of literature.

_Literature._

Not physics.

"I got the idea from Charles Dickens," the old man explained. His name was Willis Hill.

"Okay," Sherlock said, sitting in an empty classroom with Willis Hill.

Willis was leaning against his desk. "Stephen Hawking said something along the lines of; time travel will never be invented and we _know_ it won't because if it _was _going to eventually be invented, then there would already be accounts of future time travelers, or tourists, coming in contact with peoples in the past. If you could travel through time, where would you go? To pivotal moments in history! You would visit them like going to the cinema. And you know what gluttons we humans are for entertainment. Sure, maybe time travel would be limited to scientists in the beginning. But by the time it's perfected, you know it would become available commercially to anyone with a large enough pocket book. And if you think that middle class people are rude pigs at the amusement park or at the tropical resort, you don't know entitlement until you've dealt with a _rich _tourist. Can you imagine? 'Ms. Moneybags Supermodel, _please_ remember our time travel rules and do not draw attention to yourself, in this era even showing your ankles in scandalous so stop flashing people!'"

Sherlock just stared at the man. "Okay. With you so far. Not only is time travel _impossible_, we have hard evidence that it _never will_ become possible, regardless of the advancements of technology and science. Got it."

"That's just our baseline condition."

"I understand," Sherlock said.

"Now I'm going to explain how time travel _is_ possible," Willis said.

"I was wondering when you were going to get to that."

"Charles Dickens."

Sherlock just stared at Willis.

Willis waited.

Sherlock said, "The ghost of Christmas past."

Willis said smugly, "Exactly."

"We will be able to travel backwards in time and _see_ the past, but not interact with it."

Willis lifted his hands, palm-up. "Well done."

Sherlock shrugged. "What's the use of that?"

Willis balked. "What?"

"I said, 'What's the use of that?' We can already do that. We've been doing that for hundreds of _thousands_ of years. We paint. We write letters. We take photographs. We make videos. We can even make rudimentary holograms now. Humans are absolutely adept at capturing the moment, recording it and preserving it and we're getting better and better at it every day. There's nothing revolutionary about it. It would just be another app for your smart phone, another charge on your credit, a useless gadget. It would just be a very, very advanced photograph; the past preserved, but us unable to influenced or change what happens. What would the extraordinary effort of inventing and perfecting time travel be _worth?"_

"You tell me," Willis said. "How much money is it worth it to you to see your dead friend again, in the flesh?"

Sherlock was silent. He began calculating.

"A lot of money, I bet," Willis suggested.

Sherlock steepled his fingers and pressed them to his mouth. "Would I," he mused quietly, "want to go back and see my friend John and enjoy his company and his laugh, knowing that he was going to be horribly murdered and there was nothing I could do to stop it?"

"Hypothetically, you could watch him laugh over and over again. He would always be happy."

"Hypothetically, I could watch him get shot over and over again and he would always be suffering," Sherlock countered. "And it would only be my _perception_ that he was happy. It would never change the fact that now, here, John is buried six feet underground and he's crumbling to nothing."

"So it wouldn't be worth anything to you?"

"I don't do sentiment," Sherlock confessed. "And I have my memories when my resolve cracks."

Willis sighed, disappointed.

Sherlock asked, "But how did you do what you did? What happened to me in the hall?"

Willis smiled. "Would you like me to teach you?"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

For the next twenty years, Sherlock devoted himself entirely to the subject of time travel, which wasn't really time travel at all he discovered, and nothing at all what he expected. He imagined that time travel would involve building a machine or traveling through outer space at unheard of speeds and it wasn't like that, though he sat through many lectures from men younger than him who insisted that's what it _would be_ like, one day.

Willis Hill's vision of time travel was more like hypnosis. It had to do with the _mind_.

Try and try Willis might, but he was never able to go back in time himself. Sherlock, however, was becoming an expert at it.

_"Mycroft,"_ Sherlock breathed, his eyes closed.

"What are you seeing?" Willis asked.

Sherlock couldn't articulate. He just shook his head.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Either Willis could send Sherlock back, or Sherlock could direct himself back. But he was never gone for more than a few seconds at a time and the results were always unpredictable.

"I don't know why I _can't_ do it," Willis said in dire frustration. "It's too overpowering for me. You must have a very extraordinary mind, indeed, to sustain the vision."

Sherlock hesitated. He'd never told Willis anything about himself, nothing about his intellect or his work as a consulting detective. He wondered for the first time why. Then he realized this was the first friendship/relationship/companionship he'd had in a decade. Sherlock hadn't known he was a changed man until he saw himself reflected in Willis's eyes.

"I'm a genius," Sherlock told Willis, as they were setting up for another experiment.

Willis threw down the electrodes. Usually he monitored Sherlock's brain activity. The doors at the university were never locked and they had never been caught. "Why didn't you tell me that?" Willis demanded.

"Will it damage the experiment?"

"The results are only good if they can be repeated," Willis said. "If you're the only person in the world that can travel through time, then there's no evidence that it works. It's just your word, like a psychic or a fortune teller. When you die, all our work dies with you."

Sherlock's head sank. He was familiar with this feeling of futility.

Willis sighed and squeezed Sherlock's shoulder. He laughed. "Well, it was good work, anyhow."

"Yeah," Sherlock admitted with a half-smile.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Willis Hill died a few years later, but Sherlock continued on with his experiments alone. Acutely alone.

When Sherlock himself began feeling like an old man himself, he'd become very good at holding his visions. They were extraordinary. They were also quite draining and would leave Sherlock exhausted, irritable and in pain. His head would throb and throb for hours, sometimes days, after maintaining a vision lasting only a few minutes.

He went to incredible places.

_I can go anywhere._

Why stop at human history? He saw extinct species. He saw Pangaea.

He would walk the streets of early London, see stacks in the distance, steam-powered ferries, horse drawn carriages.

He went to his childhood home and watched him and Mycroft play silently side-by-side in a sandbox. It was a memory Sherlock had lost.

But he never saw John.

That was against the rules.

_You can cry from seven until midnight._

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Sherlock's body had always just been transport, but now he was acutely aware that his transport was failing, and his great big brain had very little time left. And the toll of mind-traveling (that's how he had come to think of it, 'mind-traveling') was obvious now: he'd developed a brain tumor. Nothing to be done about it. If anything, it was a relief.

So he plotted out his final days. He took the old white board from the closet, the one he'd used to plot his recovery, now he would plot his demise. He couldn't find dry-erase markers in any store. Kids these days with their holograms. "What's a dry-erase marker?" the clerk had asked with attitude. Whatever. He wasn't going to reuse the board again, so he used a permanent marker. Those he still had in a drawer in the flat.

He calculated many trips he could make with his remaining time. Maybe seven, with a minimum of two weeks recovery between each trip. Where would he go? Where had he always wanted to go and had been putting it off?

He wanted to know where James Moriarty had come from.

He wanted to know which pill had been the right one.

He wanted to know what happened to Irene Adler.

He wanted to see Mrs. Hudson again.

He wanted to see Mycroft again.

He wanted to see his own mum and dad again.

And…

Sherlock hesitated, pen in hand, poised to write.

John. Yes, it was finally okay to see John again.

But…which John did he want to see? Happy John, from when they first met? Or maybe later on when they had grown comfortable? Or…did Sherlock want to be confronted with the truth, and watch John's sad end?

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

In his final days, Sherlock couldn't rise from his bed.

Which was fine. He'd gone everywhere he'd wanted to go, except one.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

_"John."_

It was automatic. It was instinctual. Sherlock knew from experience he couldn't interact with the past, that no one could hear him or see him, but he called out for John the moment he saw him. Because he desperately wanted to look at John as much as possible, and John was facing the opposite direction at that moment, taking a leisurely stroll down Baker Street, headed home by the looks of it.

Except that John _did_ stop at the sound of Sherlock's voice, and curiously turned around. He was young and healthy and everything that Sherlock remembered. He even had his hands filled with grocery bags. John regarded Sherlock curiously. "Um, hello?" said John.

Sherlock stopped immediately. No one had ever seen him before in his visions. Not once. Except John, he realized. John had seen Sherlock the very first time.

He rushed forward to his friend. "John! John!" Sherlock was so excited he didn't know what to do or say. He was overjoyed.

John backed up cautiously. "Do I know you?"

Sherlock realized he was an old man. "John. It's me. It's Sherlock. I'm from the future and I traveled back in time to find you."

John looked at Sherlock disgusted. "Um. _Wow_. Okay."

"It's really me and I can prove it!" Sherlock said. He dug in his pockets for his driver's license and he showed John anxiously, his wrinkled hands shaking. "Look at my name. Look at the date it was issued."

John took it impatiently. He sneered. "That's a neat little prop. This is so strange, I've never met an _obsessed_ fan. Damn it, I've never gotten a date from groupie, but this? This is disappointing…"

Sherlock was forlorn. "John. John. Please. I can tell you anything."

John shrugged. "I'm sure you can. Now, this has been…interesting, but my arms are tired and I want to go home. Why don't you run along and stop embarrassing yourself?"

"John!" Sherlock cried. "I picked the wrong pill. The one that cabbie had? I picked the wrong one. I went back in time and I saw him prepare the poison. So it was right of you to shoot him because if you hadn't, I would have accidentally committed suicide."

John stood still.

"Nobody knew about you shooting the cabbie except you and me," Sherlock said. "And the password to your laptop is your sister's ex-wife's name, Clara. I guessed it right off and that's why you were angry with me that time I took your computer, because…oh John, my visions never last more than a few minutes and I don't want to waste precious time trying to prove myself to you. I've spent the past fifty years learning how to travel through time and all I want to do is tell you that you were murdered and it's all my fault. Years ago, I dragged you to a case you wanted no part in and it was all too much for us, just as you said it would be, and we got caught and we got tied up and they shot you. They shot you and you died and I'm so sorry. And it's going to happen soon, John, and you need to get away from me, you need to get away from the Sherlock you know because he's dangerous and deranged and he doesn't understand anything good or worthwhile. If you want a happy life, you should move out, today. Go and find a nice girl and have a family and never think of me again, I beg you."

John was silent. There was alarm in his face.

Sherlock shut his eyes. His heart was pounding and he couldn't breathe. "John, get away from me. Just leave Baker Street. Your Sherlock will never understand. He can't. He doesn't have the capacity for goodness or kindness. I needed to watch you die to understand those things, to become a good person. But I'd rather that you live than….oh , God." He couldn't go on. His vision was deteriorating. Pain shot through his body and the ground rushed up. He blinked rapidly and realized he was laying on the sidewalk.

"Hey!" John dropped his bags. He rushed to Sherlock and crouched beside him. "Are you alright? Can you hear me?"

"John, you were my best friend," Sherlock wheezed, despondent and grieved and thankful. He realized he'd spent half of his life in the service of John Watson, and it had been so much worthwhile than when he'd lived for himself. "I've missed you so much."

"Hang on," John urged, dialing his phone. "Sir, I'm going to get you to a hospital."

Sherlock reached up faintly and covered John's phone, pushing it aside. "I've seen so many incredible things, John. I wish I could tell you. I wish I could _show_ you. John."

John took Sherlock's hand in his left and dialed anxiously with his right. "Just don't talk, mister. It's…it's fine."

Sherlock smiled. "John."

Eventually, an ambulance came and paramedics took Sherlock away. John clung to Sherlock's sleeve as his was strapped down. Then one of the paramedics asked John, "Are you family?"

John hung back. "Um. No. I don't actually know who he is…" With uncertainty, he looked after Sherlock's face. But Sherlock's head had limply fallen to the side, his eyes closed peacefully. "He's…just a stranger."

The medics nodded and hefted Sherlock's gurney up into the ambulance, which promptly sped away.

John stayed behind, frazzled and silent. He took the groceries up the steps to 221b. After he finished putting everything away, he sat down at his laptop and put in the password 'CLARA' and began to write about what had just happened, about the strange fan he'd met. Then he realized he still had the drivers license in his pocket. He took it out and looked at it.

Sherlock Holmes.

221b Baker Street, London NW1.

It looked unsettlingly real.

John fished out his phone and dialed the hospital frantically. He talked to ten different people, transferred again and again.

Unidentified elderly male patient, dead on arrival.

John closed his phone and pressed it against his chest.

"John," Sherlock said insistently.

John yelped a little, coming out of his stupor. He looked up at Sherlock, bewildered. "Oh. I didn't hear you come in."

Sherlock smiled. He spun around, his black coat billowing. "Come on. That lead I told you about? It's the genuine thing and I know exactly where they're going to be tonight. If we leave now, we'll catch them just before they leave London."

John nervously put his laptop aside and stood up. "Wait a minute. Just…is this the case you were telling me about? The drug runners? I thought we agreed this wasn't our thing."

"Scotland yard is utterly outclassed," Sherlock declared mischievously.

"And you're not?" John asked.

"I haven't met a criminal who could outsmart me yet."

"Sherlock," John sighed. "That's not the point." He followed Sherlock towards the front door. "Besides. Um. There's something I need to tell you. Something strange happened to me today."

Sherlock sighed, opening up their front door. "John, is this something that can _wait_ for our victory dinner?"

"I suppose…"

"Good! Then let's go."

And God did _not_ intervene, though when John Watson cried out for God, he used Sherlock's full name, like maybe God didn't know who Sherlock was, or maybe John just wanted to make sure God didn't confuse him with all the other Sherlocks in the world and inadvertently save the wrong one.

The end.

Author's Note: I am so sorry.


	2. Alt Ending

In his final days, he'd gone everywhere he'd wanted to...

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

_"John,"_ Sherlock called insistently, pleasantly, breezing through the front door of the flat, his black coat billowing. "Come on. That lead I told you about? It's the genuine thing and I know exactly where they're going to be tonight. If we leave now, we'll catch them just before they leave…London." He paused mid-step. After a moment, he relaxed and squared himself formerly, putting his hands behind his back. "Hello," he greeted.

"Hello," Sherlock answered back.

He was sitting comfortably on the sofa. He was old and gray where the other Sherlock was black, youthful, but his eyes were as sharp and crystal blue as ever. His gun was pointed directly at his younger self, his frail arm balancing on his knee for both comfort and accuracy.

The younger Sherlock's eyes darted quickly around the flat, searching for any evidence of a struggle.

"John's not here," the other Sherlock assured him gently. "And he won't be back for a bit. After I let myself in, I depleted his bank account online, so he'll be struggling at the store before coming home without the shopping." He nodded at the door. "Shut the door. I don't want to alarm Mrs. Hudson."

Without hesitation, Sherlock swung the door shut and threw the deadbolt. Then he casually shrugged off his black coat and scarf and hung them up neatly beside the other Sherlock's black coat and scarf, identical to his, but older, stiffer, faded. As he turned around, he asked politely, "May I sit?"

"Please," the older Sherlock answered. "This is your home."

"Yours, too, by the look of you." Sherlock nudged his leather arm chair to face the sofa and sat across from himself and folded his hands in his lap. "Let's have it," he said, directly and without awe or wonder.

The older Sherlock said, not skipping a beat, "After John was murdered, my whole world was radically altered."

Younger Sherlock slowly laced his fingers together, listening with full attention.

The older Sherlock continued, "I thought my…sense of suspended reality was just a stage of my grieving process. It started off with little things: I looked at my reflection and I didn't know who I was. _I_ wasn't right. My face didn't belong to me. It belonged to a stranger. And thinking I was beyond counseling, I decided not the seek outside help. I plotted out my _own_ recovery, my own coping mechanisms for the PTSD and the survivor's guilt. But all I felt was an overwhelming sense of normalcy. Punctuated by moments of déjà vu. I wasn't _planning_ my recovery. I was _predicting_ it. I wasn't_ shocked_ that John died. I was _expecting_ him to. That day in the hospital, when Harry took him off life-support, I thought was I was experiencing was numbness-Comforting, wonderful numbness. Something my psyche did to protect me. But, no. That wasn't it at all. It was nothing short of an affirmation."

The other Sherlock listened without interrupting.

"So I made up rules. Rules to…_keep me on track_," Sherlock explained carefully. "Do you understand? I don't remember thinking them up. They came naturally. And the urgency to not break them came naturally as well. I never questioned my own state of mind. I never questioned the rules or the results. Until one day."

"Go on," the younger Sherlock urged, pressing his forefingers against his lips tensely, his mind at work, chasing the strands of information.

Sherlock said, "I kept a cardboard box. It was filled with John's things. Things that…they were for John." He took a shaky breath. "After the burial, I knew Harry would come to the flat and go through the box, through John's things, and take them away." He paused, his pale eyes full of infinite, infinite sadness. "_I knew she would come._ She didn't tell me. I just knew. I was so sick, waiting for her to come." He shook his head, willing away the inevitable. "And then I was filled with so much rage. Even though it was against the rules, I took out the box and went through it, trying to decide what I could take and hide from her before she came. It was against everything I had been trying to do. I had been trying to…" He waved his hands then, struggling for words, "…dissociate myself from my grief, I had been trying to prevent myself from _fetishising_ John's belongings and John's _memory_ by keeping his things out of sight, out of reach, so if anything I should have been _happy_ for Harry to take them away." His voice ratcheted then, panicking with every descriptor. "But I_ wasn't_ happy, I was…I just _had_ to keep _something_. I couldn't just let Harry _take everything_."

Younger Sherlock asked gently, "Would you like a glass of water?"

"Yes, please." The older Sherlock tilted his gun aside. He was breathing heavily then.

Sherlock stood up and went into the kitchen and returned with a glass which he handed to his older self. In the time he was gone, he saw that the other man had taken a moment to compose himself. Older Sherlock then took a small sip and set down the glass on the coffee table. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Please continue." Sherlock noted where his older self had set the hand gun down next to him. He thought about lunging for it, but he made no move for it. He eyed it for a long time.

Older Sherlock went on, more quietly now. "I took his dog tags. I took his watch. I took his phone. Then I took his wallet." He paused. "I opened it up and there was an ID inside. Not John's. _Mine_. But from the _future_. I was _old_ in the photograph. But it was _my face_. My _right_ face. The one I was expecting to see in the mirror, but the one that was never there." Sherlock settled his back against the sofa. "I opened up his laptop. I found a draft of an unfinished blog post-about an elderly, obsessed fan he'd met who claimed to be _me_ from the _future_. Then I checked John's phone history. I saw all the numbers he called the day he died. It was hardly an investigation to figure out what happened after that. A few phone calls to Mycroft and Lestrade, an exhumation of one John Doe and a DNA test later and I was able to confirm all of it: A version of me, from sixty some odd years in the future, went back in time to attempt to warn John of his imminent murder, but he failed in his mission and John died anyway, and that future Sherlock died on the sidewalk before anyone else found out. A miracle of science happened, of human achievement, and no one knew."

The other Sherlock was silent.

"I struggled with this information for decades," Sherlock said. "After that day, I felt like I had no control. My future was already either already set, or in discovering the truth, I had spoiled my chance of ever seeing John again. I kept the secret, never telling anyone what I knew, watching all my friends grow old and die, feeling like I was letting them all down one by one. And then, like clock work, the events in my life played out, and I discovered a man who taught me time travel. I absorbed all that I could, and now here I am." He paused. "I think you and I have been living out this drama over and over again for quite some time."

"Yes, here you are," Sherlock replied bitterly. "Knowingly playing your part yet again."

"No," the other Sherlock said eagerly. "I think…I've willfully ignored the clues before because I always knew, deep down, that I would be reunited with John again if I just...followed the _rules_." He breathed, and his breath was shaky. "But I knew the Sherlock who went back in time before tried to warn John directly of his murder. And even though…that's what I feel like I _should_ do…that's what I _want _to do, see John…I'm not going to let sentiment cloud my judgment." He rose his head proudly. "So…I didn't come for John, even though I desire to see him more than anything else. I came for _you_."

"Well," Sherlock said gently, the weight of the situation settling upon him. "We know now. And we can prevent his murder."

"_This_ time," the older Sherlock said. "What about the _next_ case you drag him to? Will you give up being a detective in order to keep John safe?"

Sherlock bristled at that. "John is attracted to danger. If he's not with me, he'll find some other fix."

"John is sensible and careful as well as brave," Sherlock retorted. "He doesn't need _you_ to tempt him into risking his life on a regular basis."

"Ah." Sherlock took a deep, resolute breath. "You've come to kill me, then?"

Sherlock stared silently at his younger self.

The young Sherlock sighed. "Dull. Predictable. _Pointless._ This isn't a _logical_ decision. This is years of self-hate and shame driving what is nothing less than a revenge killing. You want to murder _me_ because of something _you_ did."

"Yes," Sherlock confessed.

The younger Sherlock was slightly taken aback by the ready admission. "Well," he went on. "I can assure that John will be _just fine_ in my company. I have _data_. _This data_. And that's all I need to make informed decisions about his…safety." He thrust out his chest and jutted his chin smugly. "I'm truly sorry that _you_ didn't have the benefits of this information when you were in my place. But now _I_ know and I will…adjust my decisions accordingly."

The older Sherlock did not reply. He stared at his younger self without expression.

The younger Sherlock glanced briefly down at the older Sherlock's gun, then immediately looked back up at his other self's face, hoping the motion wouldn't be noticed. "As for you," he continued nonchalantly, "well, I'm sure you're wondering where this leaves you. You came all this way to a time and place where you don't belong. And I'm sure you came here with a very good idea of what you intended on doing, and now those plans are not to be. What will you do now? I'm sure you have no idea. Do you really think John would be better off under your watchful eye, rather than mine? Especially considering your history of failure? And then this, again, another example of your lack of foresight. I really don't think you thought this through carefully. Your judgment is impaired. Severely, I'm afraid. I honestly doubt that John would be safe with you for even one minute. As you've pointed out, you've….fetishized his memory. You'd probably worship him if you saw him. How can you possibly keep him safe? No. No, this just won't do. This is a terrible plan. You can't expect me to volunteer to die under these circumstances. This is ridiculous."

Sherlock replied calmly, "You're deductions are spot on, as always."

"Why, thank you. I'm glad you see things my way."

"But your deductions are not _predictions_," the older Sherlock warned him.

The other curled his lip. "You're going to murder me anyway, knowing how flawed and inferior your mind has become?" the younger Sherlock said in disgust.

Sherlock said without malice, "I'm going to demonstrate that my 'flawed, inferior mind' is not a product of my age or my grief, but a life-long defect that's been present since birth."

The younger Sherlock laughed at that. "_My_ mind?"

Wordlessly, the older Sherlock fished something from out of his pocket. "Here. You'll remember this." He produced a bottle with one pill inside it. "I went back to the school after you and John and the police cleared out and I found the missing pill that you dropped."

The younger Sherlock recognized the bottle immediately and drew and sharp breath. "Ah. You took it. No wonder we couldn't find it."

Older Sherlock went on, "You were perfectly willing to swallow this before, so you shouldn't have any hesitation now." He handed it to his other self.

Sherlock took it, his face somber. "I was…confident about my decision."

"You had no idea."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine. An educated guess." He rolled the bottle in his hands. Inside, the pill tumbled faintly about.

Both men were quiet for a long time.

The older Sherlock watched the younger Sherlock's expressions quickly cycle through the seven stages of grief. When he arrived at acceptance, he asked quietly, "You've had a life time to think this through, obviously. Is there no other way?"

The older Sherlock thought a moment. Then he answered, "I have carefully considered many scenarios. If John had not intervened on that day and shot the cabbie, you would have swallowed that pill to whatever end. Now I am intervening on John's behalf and setting the world right."

The younger Sherlock's cheek twitched, a brief mournful smile at the corner of his mouth. "You could have gone back to that day. Just prevented John from saving me."

"No. This solution brings me a deep sense of satisfaction. I have not struggled with this since I first thought of it."

Sherlock unscrewed the cap. "Has…your life been that unhappy?"

"It has been deeply unhappy, yes."

"Pity." Sherlock up-ended the bottle and let the pill fall into his hand. "There were…things I wanted to do." That he said very quietly, more to himself than to the other one.

"I know," Sherlock said. "But…I've been alive for a great many years longer than you have. I assure you, I never did any of those things anyway."

The younger Sherlock pinched the pill between his thumb and his forefinger and looked at it, holding it up in the light. It was just as he remembered. "Tell me how John was murdered."

"Shot twice. Once in the chest, then in the throat."

Sherlock's cold blue eyes did not soften as he examined the pill. "Did he…suffer?"

"We were both terrified. They dragged him away from me and…he was alone. And, yes. He suffered. It was terrible."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too." He paused. "But I was there when Harry turned off the machines. But. By then. He'd. Lost his...sparkle."

"Sparkle?"

"That…glimmer." He waved his hand vaguely. "Him. He was just a body. He was gone."

Sherlock took the pill in his mouth and swallowed without indecision or hesitation. "John won't understand," he said quickly, unsure of the poison's immediate effects.

"I can stage things if you'd like," Sherlock offered. "Make it look like a drug overdose so there'll be no questions."

Sherlock exhaled loudly at that, dissatisfied. "There will be questions. Regardless. And later…obviously, forensics…"

"But for _John_."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, settling back into the chair and closing his eyes. "What a waste."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Later, old Sherlock descended the stairs and walked out of 221b. As he did, he saw that Mrs. Hudson's door was ajar, sweet smells and cheerful humming drifting out. He felt a pang of longing but ignored it. He went outside and paused in front of Speedy's, eyes skimming over familiar tables and a familiar awning…and a familiar life that died long ago with John, during a time when he could watch and deduce without guilt and simply experience life as it was without attributing dark meanings to every observation.

It was his intention to walk on and find a quiet place.

But seeing the rusty iron tables and chairs in front of Speedy's, Sherlock came to a sudden stop. He walked over slowly and put his hands on the back of one of the chairs and leaned there. After a moment, he sat down. He turned his face up and felt the warm sunshine against his haggard cheeks. He thought of all the breakfasts, lunches and dinners with John shared here. He thought of all the times with Mrs. Hudson as she aged, as she grew frail. The coffee with Lestrade as the graying D.I. tried to keep in touch with Sherlock even as they drifted apart. Molly, a few times, even after she married.

After a time, a waiter drifted over and asked for Sherlock's order, and he asked for some coffee. It was brought quickly and the old man sat quietly, sipping now and again and simply reflecting on all he had done.

Of course, Sherlock had not given his younger self the poison pill.

He gave him the fake, but was pleased all the same that the younger Sherlock swallowed it so readily and without a struggle.

No, he still had the poison in his pocket.

John.

John was walking down the sidewalk, behind him. He could not see John. The hair on the back of Sherlock's neck stood up. He could hear John's stiff gate, recognized it immediately. Familiar. Angry. Oh yes, the bank account. Drained.

Every instinct screamed inside him to rise from his seat and turn and see John, _John, oh God, John! It's me, Sherlock! _but he didn't.

Foot steps on the stoop. The front door of the flat opening…the door slamming shut. Still angry.

Sherlock held his breath. He listened.

A minute later, he exhaled. He fought the irresistible urge to spring from his seat and fly up the stairs of 221b after his friend.

The events needed to play out, now, and they couldn't be interrupted, even though Sherlock wanted his younger self to experience as much aguish and fear as possible. And be acutely alone through it all. But maybe it was just as well that John should see it, too, and see Sherlock's soul bared.

And Sherlock hoped that, as his younger self lay on the sofa, expecting to die and cycling through the inevitable panic, as he experienced the misery and the sense of helplessness _he_ had experienced so long ago, he hoped Sherlock would come to understand all he had robbed John of, and feel and know the pang of separation and the frustration of a brilliant life wasted. Two brilliant lives wasted.

But Sherlock was still in his own personal hell, even now.

Something…miraculous was happening two floors above him. Something he desperately wanted to see.

He and John were reunited.

To whatever end. For however long.

Maybe they would both die tomorrow. Maybe they would die ten years from now. Maybe John would still die…a careless tumble down the steps or a traffic accident. Or maybe Sherlock would die. Or maybe they would have a falling out of some sorts, and their friendship would suddenly end.

But…

Sherlock had spent the remainder of his entire life, over fifty years, in the service of this moment.

A moment he was missing!

John.

John, just beyond his reach.

Sherlock shut his eyes in sadness.

It didn't matter. His own John was gone. And although the murder was erased from time, it was not erased from Sherlock's memory, nor was the knowledge of his repeated failures and the fact that John had been murdered over and over again just for this moment to occur.

What was happening up there? In that sitting room right now?

This moment was his triumph! His victory! He ought to be able to _see_ at least.

His fist clenched miserably.

But what was he to do? He could not climb the stairs to 221b ever again. His John was gone. That John upstairs was not his John.

His John was gone.

Really gone.

Really, truly gone.

More gone than if he'd merely died. More gone than if he'd been buried in the ground and rotted to nothing, his name flaking off a worn tombstone. Because he _had_ died, but now he didn't even _exist_. His murder was erased from time, his suffering forgotten, his silent rise and fall of his chest as he was hooked up to a respirator…gone, gone, gone, all injustice, all in vain, nothing left to avenge. Oh, John. _Oh, John, I won't forget you. I am not forgiven just because my crime is covered up. I saw you suffer, I saw it, it was real. It was my doing and it happened all the same, even though I prevented it, it still happened, once, and probably many times before, over and over, and I won't forget. Even though I've forgotten, I won't forget. When I am dead, it won't be forgotten, even though it will. John. John. I can never make it right. I've done all I can, perfected time travel, and it's still not enough. What more can I do? John! John!_

His hand sunk low in his pocket and he gripped the vial with the poison pill. He did not even realize he'd done it until it was over.

And once he did realize what he'd done, he had a sharp moment of clarity. Then disappointment. He held the empty container in his open hand. He'd wanted his final moments to have more meaning than this. But no matter. Better to get it done and over with.

He was so dumbstruck, it took him a moment to realize that someone was shouting.

"Sherlock, wait!" John cried, bursting out of the front door, running, coming to a halt, gripping the back of his chair and tugging Sherlock to face him. "No!" he cried, forlorn, seeing what had happened. He sank to his knees, eyes darting from the vial to Sherlock's face. "No. _No._ I…no, what have you _done_?"

Sherlock's heart leapt from his chest. He was about to cry John's name in joy, but his throat seized immediately, the poison taking him. He wheezed instead. Convulsed. Eyes open, still alert, he felt fire sliding up his throat, eating his esophagus as the pill sank down, down, dissolving.

John's face was twisted in agony. "No! No, this…it's not supposed to happen like this." He seized Sherlock's lapels to keep him sitting up. "I was supposed to save you from the pill. It's supposed to be _me_, not you!" His brows were drawn in confusion, as if he were on the verge of discovering something important, remembering _something._

But Sherlock had already gone limp. He sank down in his chair, his head falling to the side. He was only dimly clinging to consciousness, and whatever awareness remained in him was overwhelmed by the pain of his melting organs, his nervous system too compromised to even scream out in pain. He desperately wanted to reach out for John, as he was afraid, but his arms were as distant and numb and separated from his perception as his past lives. As his breathing stilled and his blood and brain were deprived rapidly of oxygen, he quickly forgot his own name and the events that brought him to this moment. He was only aware of his fear and the dark and helpless sinking, drowning feeling as he was swallowed by nothing, nothing, painful, crushing nothing.

"I followed the _rules!_" John protested in angry failure and betrayal.


End file.
